


Wilford laughs, but is he happy?

by redraspberrycats



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Gen, Goddamnit I tagged all this and it deleted them all, Guns, I am loving him always and of course have to make him suffer, I'm not doing it again, Kinda, Knives-- mentioned, M/M, and dark is there and I need to flesh out his character more, baii, basically Wilford is sad and troubled, birdbrain nestor, idk but whatever, some blood but nothing intense at all, the violence isnt even that graphic i just put the warning to be safe, this is a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 09:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14870871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redraspberrycats/pseuds/redraspberrycats
Summary: "Sometimes he remembers."Wilford gets flashbacks and then reality and what used to be blurs together and he really is unsure who is who and where is where and-- we all have hard times, but his past haunts him more than most.





	Wilford laughs, but is he happy?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello, and welcome to my little baby fic! It started out pretty short and then it... Grew into this. Not much, but way longer than it was originally, so shush okay >_<. Anyway, enjoy?? Leave comments on places I can improve and places I'm doing well, please! *Waving at you in the distance with a white handkerchief*

Wilford laughed.   
His eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth stretched so far you could see both rows of his teeth as he doubled over in mirth.  
Across the room, Dark glared at him in annoyance from underneath his too-long bangs, which didn’t go unnoticed. “I-I’m sorry, Dark.” Wilford said, still wheezing with laughter. He was not sorry. “I just… W-with your mouth?!” 

“Shut up, Warfstache!” Dark threatened with his cheeks taking on a darker hue. “You tell anyone about this and I will personally see to your downfall.” His threats didn’t work very well, however, because he was still so flustered at Wilford finding him attempting to open the jam jar with his teeth that he had not yet regained his composure. 

Still giggling a little, Wilford walked around the counter and over to where his lover was sulking on a kitchen stool, pecking him on the lips and smiling ever so slightly more as he did so. “Next time, you could just wait and ask me for help.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dark turned his head to the side like the secretly emo child he was (Wilford was s t i l l trying to work out where he kept his personal copy of The Black Parade-- he knew it had to be some place, he just wasn’t quite sure where, yet). “You're never going to let me hear the end of this, are you?”

“Nope~. It's my perpetual duty in life to antagonize you, since no one else around here has the guts. You can count on me always being here for your torment, sugar.” Wilford responded playfully, making his way past Dark and out the door. “I've got an interview to record today, and my lovely multiconfigurational audience doesn't like to be kept waiting, so ta-ta, Darky boy! Catch up with me later, huh?” As he sashayed down the hallway, he heard Dark’s loud sigh, but he also heard his affirmation of their later meeting. Satisfied, Wilf hummed to himself on the way to the studio-- today was going to be a great day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things were not going good, not at all.   
Okay, so that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but still, this interview was not going as planned. The interviewee -- one Sir Ethan Nestor -- was very clearly evading questions, and Wilford was done dealing with it. He was considering getting out the tickling knife, but while reaching down for the thing it occurred to him that just yesterday, the producer had been yelling at him for it… Something about using it too often? Maybe he wanted the show to remain interesting and new? Yes, yes, that had to be it. Would be a bit boring for someone to get quote-unquote “stabbed to death” in every segment, he supposed. Oh, well.

Sighing internally, Wilford continued with the interview. “S o , you’re trying to tell me that you DON’T keep birds in your head? You very clearly do, Mr. Nest-or, I mean it’s right in your name! And just l o o k at that mess you’ve got going on!” He threw up one hand, exasperated, and leaned backward in his chair. He shot a glare at the ceiling, as if the man’s continued bullshit was its fault, somehow. 

“For the thousandth time, Warfstache, just because there happens to be the word nest in my LAST name doesn’t mean anything! I don’t understand why you can’t get it through your head that it’s. Just. A name.” Ethan’s blue floof went in all directions as he gesticulated wildly, making faces that were supposed to be conveying frustration. Wilford was pretty sure everyone would agree with his notion that instead, they just made him look like a buffoon.

“But that’s ri-DIC-ulous!” He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, bouncing back and forth from his heels to his toes. “I mean, look at my name. It’s WArfstache. Henceforth, I h a v e a warfstache. Right here, see?” He pointed a helpful finger toward his upper lip, just in case Ethan was missing the point-- Wilford wouldn’t put it past him. “How about you stop with all this hullabaloo and just tell us whether I’m right about them being bluejays or not… though, I can assure you, I am. There is no way sparrows would put up with such.. Conditions.” He flung an arm toward the other’s hair, indicating the bright color to it. 

Ethan, in an act of defeat, obviously, put his head in his hands. “Look, I’m done trying to figure out your backwards logic.” Hearing this, Wilford perked up. Finally, victory! “Can I please be done? I have other things to do today, I’d really like to get out of here, and I can tell there’s no way I’ll convince you of what I’m saying anytime soon.” He slumped down again. This segment was getting to be more trouble than it was worth-- the (literal) birdbrain in front of him just ref u s e d to ‘fess up!

Running out of patience, the ego decided he’d had enough of this malarkey. Seems the viewers would just have to deal with another stabbing, because this was too-- w a i t. Maybe there wouldn’t be any titillating usage of knives in this show after all. Feeling around in his logic defyingly deep pockets, Wilford found a gun that he had quite forgotten was there. Problem solved, then! It would provide variety for the viewers, the producer would stop getting on his ass about it, and he could end this blasted interview, finally. He drew the gun out of his pocket, reveling in the comfortable, familiar feel of it against his palm and in the frightened expression it inspired on the face of the room’s other inhabitant. (Wilford wasn’t quite sure why they got so scared when he brought it out, it was just a gun, just a bullet wound, they could skip it off just like everyone else--)

Smiling in a way that would have been cute if it weren’t for so deranged a reason, Wilford angled the gun at Ethan’s chest. Ethan, of course, didn’t just stand there; he jerked out of his seat and backed away, with short, careful steps, toward the edge of the stage-- neither of them noticed the dangerous direction his feet were taking. “Y’know, Nestor..” Wilford sauntered closer, inch by inch, toward the now terrified man in his studio. “Didja ever consider that the reason you “can’t convince me” is that the things you’re saying aren’t even the truth?” Somehow, the lights in the studio went dim, leaving only a spotlight on Wilford, despite the fact that the place didn’t even have adjustable lighting. It was sure to cause a line of inquiry from his coworkers, but sue him, okay, he liked the dramatic effect. Vaguely, he recognized that Ethan -- now a blue blob in the darkness -- had begun to babble some sort of apology (seriously, it was just a g u n--) but he held up a hand to silence him. The man’s mouth continued to move, of course, but it was futile.

Wilford leaned in and Ethan leaned backward to avoid him; he was now precariously close to falling off the stage. In a voice that seemed to fluctuate as wildly as his mood, Wilford said “It’S a b i t late for that, my AviAn friend. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind becoming better… acq u a i nted with this beauty, here.” He waved the gun around, narrowly missing clocking Ethan in the face, and straightened up. One arm was wrapped around his torso as he pointed the weapon of destruction decisively at his companion’s chest, letting out a low chuckle that echoed around the room. His finger tightened on the trigger, the bullet plunged into its intended target, the body tipped over the edge of the stage, instinctively reaching for someone to catch it--

All of a sudden, their surroundings changed. It wasn’t an aggravating stranger taking a fall over the railing -- stage? -- it was a dear friend. Gone was his normal yellow button down and warfstache, replaced with a beige overcoat and bushy mustache. He stretched out an arm to save the person rapidly descending through air--

But it was too late. Ethan’s body crashed to the floor, his shirt stained with blood and his eyes glazed over; he’d been dead before he hit the ground. (They really had drilled perfect aim into him throughout his time in the army) Wilford stared, unblinking, at the corpse at his feet. For a long moment, everything was still. Staff and cleaners and coworkers, people he knew, who he talked to on a daily basis, were rushing into the room. They were trying to talk to him. They were trying to calm him down, and they were calling the funeral home, (a silly practice, one he’d never been informed of the logic behind-- why put people in a funny box if they were just going to wake up again?) and distantly, he registered that somebody was rubbing his back. It must have been Celine: she’d always been good at calming him down when the war got to be too much. 

That didn’t make any sense. “Celine? Who’s Celine? Is anyone here named that??” Wilford muttered to himself under his breath, heedless of the tears streaking down his face and blurring his vision. He cast his gaze about the crowd -- when had so many people gotten here? -- focusing on nametags. None of them said Celine. What was going on? He pushed people aside, making his way through the crowd and mumbling his disapproval at the attempts to stop him. He didn’t care if he was hurting them, they could use a bit of strength to their characters anyway.

Out of nowhere, a hand closed around his bicep hard enough to drag him out of his stupor. Wilford turned around, about to demand penance from whoever had stopped his quest for answers, but halted in his tracks. Rubbing at his eyes, a crease in the middle of his forehead, he started to say “Damie--” but stopped himself. This wasn’t Damien. He didn’t even know who that was. “Dark… hey.” He offered up a weak smile. It wasn’t convincing either of them, but that’s show biz, baby. Wilford managed a watery giggle at the thought. 

“So, uh… we might have to postpone that date we had planned. Something’s come up.”

“I can see that.” Dark replied, looking around the room with a composed air. He hummed contemplatively. “Well, seems your workers have everything under control. I am rather good at choosing the right people for the right jobs, if I do say so myself.” He adjusted his tie and cracked his neck in the way that usually made Wilford want to ravish him across the nearest surface, but now just called forth images of a broken body splayed across the floor and someone’s (the DA’s) head twisted in a way he knew wasn't natural. 

Must have been flexible.

Wilford was shaken from his thoughts at the sight of a man pushing his way through the crowd with purpose, eyes hardened with concern and hair an absolute mess. Distantly, he tutted at the state of it-- proper upkeep was important, how many times did he and the Doctor need to have this conversation? Most of his mind was focused on the conundrum of who, exactly, the man was. “Dark?” Wilford looked up at his -- friend? Lover? Co-worker? Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure. 

“Who are all these people? Who is that man?... Wh-who are you?!” Stumbling slightly in his panic, he tried to edge away from the stranger in front of him, confused and hurt. Nobody and nothing familiar was around him, and his suspenders looked off, somehow (they’re supposed to be red, did Celine bleach them by accident?), and this was too much. Dark (why did Wil know that name?) stepped forward and the grip on his arm returned, steering him over to a chair next to the wall. 

Wil sat down willingly, knees shaky and voice temporarily out of commision. At this point, he wasn’t really seeing his surroundings, so the mysterious doctor person who had finally reached them was mostly a blur. He heard Dark and the other talking, but didn’t actually register it. “Ah, Dr.Iplier. Good of you to come, though i assure you, we have it handled.” Dark’s voice was smooth and professional and seemingly oblivious to the tense atmosphere around him. No one but Wilford was able to hear the underlying note of worry in his voice. A silly worrywart of a man, wasn’t he? 

The doctor’s brows furrowed, and he looked at Wilford with obvious concern-- which didn’t make any sense, did it? They didn’t even know each other. “What’s going on here?” the man asked, turning his gaze back toward his poised, suited companion. The other grinned, trying for reassuring, though it came out more feral than anything else. Dark eyes settled on his head, and Wil could feel the weight of it, the judgement and sorrow and regret, pressing down on his heart and squeezing the breath from his lungs. 

“Sometimes he remembers.”

The words were short and precise, as if this was something that happened too often to warrant lengthy explanations -- as if the mystery standing behind him to the right didn’t think he was worthy of concern. William couldn’t tell if his blase attitude was all a ruse or if he was really alone in the world right then, but he couldn’t care less. 

Everything was wrong. Celine and Damien were nowhere to be found, surely he would have heard them calling out for him before now if they were anywhere near. He’d checked the blasted seance room, the place they’d been last seen, he’d checked the entire damn house, for Christ’s sake. Everyone was gone. Gone, or… or dead. There was nothing left to do but wait. 

William shifted his focus back to the crumpled body across from him, limp on the couch. Reflexively, he tightened his grip on the cane in his lap, wishing illogically that his friend would come back. That any of them would come back. He could really use some comfort right about now. Of course, nothing happened. He closed his eyes as he was nearly bowled over with grief, despite the fact that it had been hours.

Then again, it had only been mere hours. Not even a full day yet. They could still be out there, right? They could-- but he'd checked the whole place. He just had to wait. William sighed, wanting nothing more than for this whole debacle to be a horrible dream of some sort. His mind still running in circles, he opened his eyes--

William looked around, unsure of what was going on and what to do. At first glance, it looked like chaos. People were scurrying here and there hurriedly, some with blood on their clothes or their hands. All of them had hectic expressions on their faces and it seemed as if all they wanted was to be out of this place; a few appeared downright haunted. He snickered bitterly -- man, didn't he know that feeling. 

Someone to his right cleared their throat, and he whipped his head around to find… “Damien?!” The man flinched, muttering something to himself about never being able to get used to 'it.’ William ignored the abrupt ringing in his ears and the swiftly amplifying gray-blue-red aura around his friend in favor of leaping to his feet and unsteadily walking forward to place a hand on his shoulder. “Damien! Old friend! You're alive, my god, you're okay…” He can feel his eyes filling with tears.

“I had hoped it wouldn't get this bad, but it seems matters can't be helped.” Damien said cooly. He wasn't acting as he should, not at all. That was fine. Will could deal. “Come along, then, Wil.” He took Will’s arm and led him firmly away from the wall, aiming for a door on the other side of the room. 

The DA was back! After coming to the realization that the others must also be playing a gaff as well, he makes for the stairs and stumbles up them, bicep still in the grip of his dearest friend. Who… wasn't smiling or anything. “Hey, old chap, what're ya doing? This-this isn't how you're supposed to joke.” Maybe Damien didn't understand? He always was too serious for his own good. 

Wil nearly trips up the stairs, still making his way to the upper floors. “Damien! Celine! You can come out now! You got me, alright? You got me good.” His voice subdued, he figures it would make sense for Damien to not know what he was doing and drag the joke out too long. It was just his style, to commit to something so much that it was too much. “Hey, where are you? Come on out, you fools!” He chuckles heartily. Unexpectedly, there is a touch to his shoulder. Wil turns slowly to see 

Darkiplier. Who is Darkiplier?? “What do you mean? Darkiplier? What kind of cartoon villain name is that?! Your name is Damien!” Giggles are trying to burst out of his chest and through his mouth. 

The man tugging him up the stairs stopped and made eye contact with him. There is something in his eyes, something mournful and sad, something filled with longing and an underlying taste of anger. “Damien is dead.” He said, and his voice is laced with so much bitterness you’d think he’d been sucking lemons. Wil doesn't want to think about the rest of the emotion hiding there, just beneath the surface. 

“Why, that's ludicrous!” He said. “That isn't how these things work at all!” His mouth split wide in a grin, and those giggles are doing their darndest to escape from his chest again, and he's feeling inclined to just let them. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth stretched so far you could see both rows of his teeth as he doubled over in pain.  
Wilford laughed.


End file.
